But let thy spiders that suck up thy venom

And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way,

Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet

Which with usurping steps do trample thee.

Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies,

And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower

Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder,

Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch

Throw death upon thy sovereign’s enemies.—

Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords.

This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones

Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king

Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms.

BISHOP OF CARLISLE

Fear not, my lord. That power that made you king

Hath power to keep you king in spite of all.

AUMERLE

He means, my lord, that we are too remiss,

Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,

Grows strong and great in substance and in friends.

KING RICHARD

Discomfortable cousin, know‘st thou not

That when the searching eye of heaven is hid

Behind the globe, that lights the lower world,

Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen

In murders and in outrage bloody here;

But when from under this terrestrial ball

He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,

And darts his light through every guilty hole,

Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,

The cloak of night being plucked from off their backs,

Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?

So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,

Who all this while hath revelled in the night

Whilst we were wand’ring with the Antipodes,

Shall see us rising in our throne, the east,

His treasons will sit blushing in his face,

Not able to endure the sight of day,

But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin.

Not all the water in the rough rude sea

Can wash the balm from an anointed king.

The breath of worldly men cannot depose

The deputy elected by the Lord.

For every man that Bolingbroke hath pressed

To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,

God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay

A glorious angel. Then if angels fight,

Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the right.

Enter the Earl of Salisbury

Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your power?

SALISBURY

Nor nea’er nor farther off, my gracious lord,

Than this weak arm. Discomfort guides my tongue,

And bids me speak of nothing but despair.

One day too late, I fear me, noble lord,

Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.

O, call back yesterday, bid time return,

And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men.

Today, today, unhappy day too late,

Overthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state;

For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,

Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed, and fled.

AUMERLE

Comfort, my liege. Why looks your grace so pale?

KING RICHARD

But now the blood of twenty thousand men

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled;

And till so much blood thither come again

Have I not reason to look pale and dead?

All souls that will be safe fly from my side,

For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

AUMERLE

Comfort, my liege. Remember who you are.

KING RICHARD

I had forgot myself. Am I not King?

Awake, thou sluggard majesty, thou sleep’st!

Is not the King’s name forty thousand names?

Arm, arm, my name! A puny subject strikes

At thy great glory. Look not to the ground,

Ye favourites of a king: are we not high?

High be our thoughts. I know my uncle York

Hath power enough to serve our turn.

Enter Scrope

But who comes here?

SCROPE

More health and happiness betide my liege

Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him.

KING RICHARD

Mine ear is open and my heart prepared.

The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold.

Say, is my kingdom lost? Why ’twas my care,

And what loss is it to be rid of care?

Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?

Greater he shall not be. If he serve God

We’ll serve Him too, and be his fellow so.

Revolt our subjects? That we cannot mend.

They break their faith to God as well as us.

Cry woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay:

The worst is death, and death will have his day.

SCROPE

Glad am I that your highness is so armed

To bear the tidings of calamity.

Like an unseasonable stormy day,

Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores

As if the world were all dissolved to tears,

So high above his limits swells the rage

Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land

With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than steel.

Whitebeards have armed their thin and hairless scalps

Against thy majesty. Boys with women’s voices

Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints no